


Trading Favors

by White Queen Writes (DivineLady91)



Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Romance, just warm fuzzies and dancing at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-04-18 02:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21774187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DivineLady91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: It starts with a chocolate eclair and ends with angel and demon trading favors back and forth while Crowley tries to figure out what he could offer that would be worth his angel making love to him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 31 Days of Ineffables [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560190
Comments: 15
Kudos: 156





	Trading Favors

**Author's Note:**

> Written to include Drawlight's '31 Days of Ineffables' prompt 'caroling', along with a few others.

“Goodness _gracious_ I would give my left arm for a chocolate éclair!” Aziraphale sighs, his cheek meeting his palm when he props his elbow on his desk, the rest of his body sinking so completely into the gesture he looks nearly boneless.

“Isn’t _that_ vivid? You could always miracle yourself one,” Crowley suggests, less than helpfully since he knows how Aziraphale feels about miracled food.

“Yes, but it’s never quite the same.”

“So you keep saying,” Crowley mutters into his partially drunk glass of merlot. He’s only had the one, poured more out of lack of anything better to do than actual want for inebriation.

Crowley’s in a bit of a pickle.

He wants to hang out with Aziraphale. More than anything. That’s why he came over. Doing nothing here in Aziraphale’s bookshop is preferable to doing nothing alone in his dark, empty flat.

But he’s bored.

So bored that the thought of getting up off the sofa he’s planted on and getting his angel an éclair sounds close to a grand adventure. But he can’t make it seem like Aziraphale is the one doing him a favor. He wants something out of it for himself, and an éclair doesn’t appeal to him right now.

Decisions, decisions, decisions …

He takes a sip to deliberate over - a kiss of alcohol against his lips to warm his mouth. It doesn’t quite do the trick since it’s barely a mouthful and he swallows too quickly. He licks his lips at the same time Aziraphale licks his, and smiles when he thinks of something that could warm him better.

“If I went down to the bakery and got one for you, can I have kiss?”

Aziraphale perks up, turning towards his husband and raising intrigued eyebrows. “What _kind_ of kiss?”

Crowley shrugs – a jumble of uncoordinated joints moving independently of their owner. “Just a kiss.”

“Where?”

“Oh … well … I was thinking … on the lips?”

Aziraphale chews on Crowley’s offer while he nibbles his lower lip. He’s not about to say _no_, of course. A chocolate éclair for the price of a kiss? That’s two treats in one! Only an idiot would turn that down!

But he can’t let it seem like Crowley is doing him _that_ big a favor.

He fakes a yawn while he pretends to think, bouncing his eyebrows nonchalantly.

“All right,” he says. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

“No, no. No trouble at all.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

***

“You know what I could go for right now?”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale hums around a generous bite of light pastry and thick cream, but with the smooth finish of merlot-flavored kisses clinging to his tongue, “what?”

“A glass of Midwinter Nights Dram.”

“Oh my!” Aziraphale chuckles after a swallow. “I haven’t had a glass of that in _ages_!”

“Yeah. Warmed up on many a cold night with that stuff …” Crowley gazes dreamily up at the vaulted ceilings of the bookshop as though his last memories of throwing back a bottle of Christmas whiskey is floating there amongst the beams. If he had a bottle, he could more than likely persuade Aziraphale to share it with him. Then maybe, just maybe, he could beg another kiss off his husband.

Alcohol on his husband’s breath, he has happily discovered, tastes much better than from the mouth of a bottle. 

Aziraphale chews the end of his éclair, thoughtfully watching his husband go silent, eyelids closed, a peculiar smile bunching his cheeks. “If I happen to have a bottle,” Aziraphale says, “could I bother you to help me with a chore?”

One of Crowley’s eyelids pops open, fast enough to compete with the speed of light. “What chore?”

“Move a few things upstairs?”

Crowley looks disappointed, but not enough to turn Aziraphale down. “How many things?”

“A dozen. Maybe less. But they can’t be miracled upstairs. They’re magic sensitive. They have to be carried.”

Crowley wonders if one of those items could include his angel but decides not to ask. “Sure, all right. _If_ you have it.”

Aziraphale reaches underneath his desk. His hand goes straight for a cabinet by his knee, opens it, and pulls out the exact bottle Crowley was thinking of. Without even shifting his gaze to check, Aziraphale holds the bottle up for Crowley to see, and gives it a teasing shake. “Is _this_ what you were hoping for?”

Crowley grins. He had no doubt Aziraphale had it. If he didn’t, Aziraphale would have miracled it up.

Which puts Crowley in line for another kiss, one that tastes of plum pudding, mulling spices, dried fruit, and vanilla.

But also Principality.

Crowley rises eagerly from the sofa, reaching for the bottle, but Aziraphale pulls it out of reach.

“Work first,” he says, setting the bottle back in its cabinet, impish grin twisting the corner of his mouth. “Drink afterward.”

Crowley, left reaching, his hand still hovering in the air, saunters sideways, eyeballing his flirt of a husband. He flexes his fingers and smacks his lips - his mouth dry, craving a hundred Christmas-flavored kisses. And they wouldn’t need to be on his angel’s lips. Midwinter Nights Dram would go great anywhere – Aziraphale’s shoulders, his spine, the bend of his elbow, the soft skin behind his knee … “I’d better get started.”

***

“Oh _blast_!” Aziraphale erupts, snapping Crowley out of his mellow dwam supplied by his second glass of whiskey.

“Wot?”

“I was supposed to have this book wrapped up and ready to ship before _two_!” Aziraphale says, glaring at a leather-bound book resting beneath his right hand as if it’s a rodent he’d killed days before that has somehow returned from the grave.

“And …?”

“It’s _3:15_! How in the Hell did I miss the post man?” Aziraphale twists in his chair, looking out the window in search of him, to check if, by any luck, he might still be around. “I’m going to have to run it down to the post office myself!”

“Whatever for?”

“I really need it to go out _today_!”

Crowley is going to take it for him. He knows he will. It’s the husbandly thing to do.

Still …

He looks at his glass of whiskey and frowns.

He’d gotten the drink he wanted but he’s yet to get another kiss. He thought he might be on the road to getting one. Aziraphale had asked for a glass of whiskey. Things were looking bright.

There it is, on his desk, untouched.

Crowley assumes he’d been reaching for it, which is how he stumbled across the book.

It’s sitting directly in the path his hand was traveling to reach his glass.

_Damn_!

Crowley doesn’t want to outright ask for another kiss, especially not now. He might end up with a peck on the cheek and no more talk about it. He wants to work up to it, tempt it out of his husband … and possibly a little more.

“If I take care of it, can I get a shoulder rub?” Crowley asks, rolling his right shoulder. “Humpin’ all that stuff upstairs (_nngh_!) really put a strain on the old muscles.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes but agrees, “Absolutely.”

“A _shirtless_ shoulder rub?”

Aziraphale manages to look unamused and amused at the same time. “_You_ shirtless? Or _me_ shirtless?”

“I’d prefer both of us shirtless, but just me is fine.”

And despite being in front of the eight ball, Aziraphale’s eyes sparkle at the thought. “Then I’d say, in this case, we both get a reward. Chip-chop! Hurry up!”

***

_God rest ye merry, gentlemen  
Let nothing you dismay  
Remember, Christ, our Saviour  
Was born on Christmas day  
To save us all from Satan's power  
When we were gone astray  
  
_

“Ugh!” Aziraphale’s head drops to his desk, his forehead making a soft thump when it connects with the wood.

“What?” Crowley asks, lounging on Aziraphale’s sofa with his feet up and his head lolling off the cushions, his manhandled muscles melting into the sumptuous, velvety fabric. His shirt made it back on but barely, the buttons undone down the front, his skin tingling in the winter chill.

“We have _carolers_!”

“I know!” Crowley groans sympathetically. “And they’re singing the _worst_ Christmas song _ever_! I wouldn’t say Christ _saved_ the humans from Satan. It was more of a draw.”

“I am not in the mood right now!” Aziraphale snaps into his paperwork.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Not you. _Them_!”

“Oh.” Immediately seeing an opportunity, Crowley shimmies up on the sofa. “What will you give me if I take care of them for you?”

“What do you want?” Aziraphale moans pathetically.

Crowley leans forward, relaying his request in a husky tone he prays might put him back on track towards seducing his husband. “Dance with me, angel?”

“Yes, all right,” Aziraphale agrees without a single thought, no objection whatsoever, aided by an offensively sour soprano note that might have come about with a hint of demonic assistance. “Just … get rid of them!”

“Will do!” Crowley launches out of his seat and hurries towards the door, but halfway there, he stops. “Promise not to question my methods?”

“Yes, of course. Just … _please_ …”

“On it.”

Aziraphale sighs with relief, lifting his head and straightening the papers on his desk. That’s when he realizes – he sent a demon to get rid of Christmas carolers … and he gave him carte blanche on how to do it! “Wait a minute!” He pushes away from his desk and hops to his feet, following Crowley to the front door. “Hold up! Crowley? What do you intend to …?”

But the familiar growl and shrill screams coming from outside his shop tell him he asked a second too late.

***

_At last  
My love has come along  
My lonely days are over  
And life is like a song …_

The vintage vinyl spins smoothly under the needle of Aziraphale’s gramophone as he sways slowly with his husband, in the circle of his arms. He inhales deep, his demon smelling bitter and sweet: of cloves and spice, whiskey and wine, cranberry and chestnut, of crisp winter air and the new falling snow from when he stepped out the door and, for a split second, transformed into a monstrous, fire-breathing serpent to clear away the carolers.

Aziraphale didn’t entirely approve of this technique, but he can’t help himself giggling at how a dozen men, women, and children dressed in matching red tartan shirts and wearing wool pompom hats leapt five feet and scattered like mice in a dark room with the lights flicked on. But Aziraphale made sure to bless them as they ran, made certain that little Ryan Weathers would find that bike he wants under his tree, that Molly Stevens would get the game system she asked for (seeing as she was nearly trampled by, of all people, her mum), that Pastor Dorney (the leader of the gang) would find an uptick in attendance at his small church on Christmas morning, along with donations, and on and on. Maybe Aziraphale wasn’t in the mood for carolers at the time, but he can’t blame them for their service. They were only trying to spread Christmas cheer, after all.

Considering the cynical times they live in, it’s truly a noble cause.

Aziraphale hugs his husband tight and Crowley reciprocates. But they’ve been dancing for half an hour and Crowley hasn’t said a word. Aziraphale doesn’t think he feels guilty about what he’s done, but he _is_ curious.

“You sure have gone quiet,” Aziraphale points out, peeking up at his husband, a hair’s breath from his lips. “Still mulling over the frightened faces of those poor carolers you scared down the street?”

“No,” Crowley replies, but a tiny smile slips onto his face. “Well, _yes_, but … I guess I’m just wondering …”

“Hmm? What?”

“What I have to do to get you to make love to me.”

Aziraphale smiles. “My dear boy. You don’t _need_ to do anything. Just ask.”

“Really?”

“Really. Making love isn’t something you need to trade favors for. It’s something I enjoy. I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s cheek and rests his head on his husband’s shoulder. They continue to sway, caught in the spell of Etta James’s rich contralto voice, till it hits Crowley that he may not _need_ to do anything, but there still may be something he can do for his enamored angel.

Because he loves him.

“And another éclair?” he asks.

Aziraphale rolls adoring eyes up at his demon. “One for after would be _lovely_.”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale on the forehead. “I’ve got you covered.”


End file.
